


You Had Time

by ladyvivien



Category: Iron Lady (2011), Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Geoffrey is fucking up again, Hurt/Comfort (sort of), Old Married Couple, Politics, Spanking, they're sweet in a horrible Tory sort of way, this is why she only got three hours of sleep a night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/pseuds/ladyvivien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'll never tell her, but he can't sleep properly until he knows that she's at least getting some rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Had Time

**Author's Note:**

> _You say ‘did they love you or what?’_  
>  I say, ‘they love what I do. The only one who ever really loves me is you.’
> 
>  
> 
> \- You Had Time, Ani diFranco

It's late when Margaret comes to bed. _Later_ , he corrects himself, as he squints at the clock, the kind of late that's really early morning. Again. He wakes when he hears the door close - he'll never tell her, but he can't sleep properly until he knows that she's at least getting some rest.

"And just what time do you call this?" he calls out, teasing her. There's a harrumph of laughter, and two thuds as she kicks off her shoes and then she's outlined in the doorway. 

"I'm sorry, darling," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "But I've spent all night going over Geoffrey's white paper with a red pen and - "

"And now it's a red paper," he finishes for her.

She sighs, irritably. "Honestly, his incompetence astounds me sometimes. When I think of what scrapes he'd get into without me around to nudge him in the right direction..."

"You're talking like the Prime Minister again, sweetheart."

"I _am_ the Prime Minister," she replies, with a touch of petulance in her voice. "And I really think - "

"No." He stands up, encircles her waist and pulls her close, kissing her forehead tenderly. "No more thinking tonight, Margaret. You've done enough."

She murmurs against his neck, and he realises that he's woken up semi-hard again - he's relatively sure that this shouldn't be happening as often at this time of life, but then most men aren't married to Margaret. He tilts her head up a little and kisses her softly, then again with more passion. He feels her relax a little, soften against him as he strokes her back.

"Still the Prime Minister?" he asks. She shakes her head, a little reluctantly.

"I don't believe you."

He manoveres her to the bed and pulls off her jacket. She shivers in anticipation as he tosses it aside and slowly begins to unbutton her blouse. He leaves the bow at her neck until last, and flips the ends at her, tickling her chin, when he unties it. In the half-light he sees her smile, and as he eases the blouse off, he realises that her nipples are hard beneath the silk of her bra. She'll have to learn the value of patience, he thinks. Again.

He moves so that he's sitting behind her, legs around her waist and cock pressing intently against the small of her back. She wriggles a little, urging him to full hardness, making it clear what she wants. He rests his hands on her shoulders and begins massaging in slow circles until the tense muscles start to unknot. He strokes her neck, sliding his hands through still-immaculate hair to rub her temples. She tries to nuzzle his arm as he does so, gently urging him to move a little faster. He increases the pressure - not enough to hurt her, just enough to keep her in place. She's going to need a firm hand tonight.

He trails his hands down the cool skin of her neck and feels her hum the beginnings of a moan. He focuses his ministrations on the flesh between her shoulder blades, running his fingers in a hard stroke down her spine. She's moaning softly now, and the pleasure is only partly sexual. She's so tightly wound, he knows that it's a luxury for her to unbend at all, let alone in front of someone. It took them so long to get to this point, from her seeing it as a duty - although he was wonderfully grateful for a virgin bride who had researched the subject so damned _thoroughly_ beforehand- to his working out exactly how to please her.

He shifts position and she turns, eagerly capturing his mouth in a kiss, but he pulls back.

"Take off your skirt and lie down on the bed, Margaret." 

Her breath hitches, and he feels her body respond to his gentle reminder that he's in charge tonight. Her skirt slithers down around her ankles within moments, and her hands pause uncertainly over her underwear.

"On or off?" No prevarication, that's what he likes about her.

He thinks for a moment. "Knickers off. The stockings can stay on." She pulls them down obediently, and he can smell her arousal.

She lies on her stomach, legs spread just a little, just enough that he can see the fading dark curls between her thighs, just enough that he gives into temptation and skims a finger through her wetness.

"That had better be for me, sweetheart," he warns.

"Of course it is!" That note of indignation again. She hasn't quite ceded control yet, but she will. She needs it as much as he does. "I'm hardly going to get..." she fumbles for the right word, still so awkward unless she's in the heat of passion, " _excited_ raking Geoffrey over the coals, am I?"

"I know how much you like punishing your boys," he teases, his fingers kneading the soft skin of her bottom. "Did you make him get down on his knees and apologise?"

She squirms, and he knows she's blushing. Honestly, he's not entirely sure what's truth and what's rumour, whether she does discipline her recalcitrant ministers that way, or if it's just another of Margaret's torrid fantasies. He doesn't particularly care, just as long as he's still the one she gives herself up to at the end of the day.

"I don't enjoy it, you know," she murmurs unconvincingly. "But if I don't keep them in line, then my authority  
is completely undermined."

"Your authority ends when you come up to the flat," he reminds her. "Worry about it in the morning."

"It is the morning."

"Then worry about it at breakfast."

She lapses into silence, and he concentrates on working each muscle in her back until the hard knots of tension relax before moving his hands to her thighs. She enjoys his touch there, but she's wise enough not to show it too much in case he simply stops and tucks her in for the night. She lies there obediently as he squeezes and strokes her taut calves and then presses his thumbs into hard circles on the balls and heels of her feet, rubbing the arches and each toe individually.  
"You shouldn't wear those shoes, love," he tells her, "they're murder on your feet."

She doesn't argue, too far gone to put up her usual protest about needing to look her opponents in the eye, although he knows she won't take his advice. She so rarely does.

He could leave her like this, aroused but relaxed, and let her gently drift off to sleep for a few snatched hours. It would be kinder, really, but that flicker of jealousy in his belly that he's normally so good at keeping in control is blazing hard tonight, after his wife climbed the stairs at three in the morning with whiskey on her breath and another man's aftershave clinging to her skin.

"Better?"

"Almost."

"Anywhere I've missed?"

She arches her hips in response, and he's taken aback all over again at just how sexy she looks like that. Lying on the bed, her bra unhooked but still on, and her stockings and suspenders framing the curves of her bottom exquisitely. He runs his hand over the flesh there, squeezing lightly. The first slap is firm but gentle, and he relishes the sharp gasp. He knows that she's surprised by it every time, not so much by the spanking as by the thrill of excitement that accompanies it. A second hard tap, then a third, and he can hear her uneven breath. He knows she's biting her lip with the effort not to beg for more.

"It's three in the morning, Margaret," he chastises. "What sort of time is that to finish work?" She mumbles something that might be an apology into the pillow, and the next slap is harder. The light spilling in from the hallway shows that her right cheek is turning an appealing shade of pink.

"You were going to come up for dinner," he reminds her, and feels her wince as she remembers. "Did you even eat anything?" She shakes her head. "What am I going to do with you?"

She lifts her head. "I'm not hungry." There's a note of pleading in her voice, and he knows that she's eager for him to bring this to its logical conclusion.

He gets off the bed and she sits up, hair slightly mussed and looking annoyed.

"Denis, what are you _doing_?"

"I'm making you some toast," he informs her. "Now lie back down and _don't move_ until I come back."

When he returns, it's with two slices of only slightly burnt toast slathered with marmalade and the crusts cut off. She doesn't move until he tells her she can, losing the bra completely, and keeping her hands folded primly in her lap without having to be instructed. He holds a slice of toast up to her mouth.

"Open." She eats it, a little reluctantly, but takes a second bite without protest. "Good girl."

By the time she's finished the first slice, there's a smear of butter at the corner of her mouth and her tongue flickers out to wipe it clean. He groans involuntarily and she smiles wickedly, starting to look more like his vixenish wife and less like the woman who has the country's balls in her perfectly-manicured grasp. Once she's swallowed the last bite, she obligingly licks him clean. She sucks each finger into her mouth, humming in pleasure, tongue swirling around the tip, and gives him that look that always undoes him, the one that's half-demure, half-cheeky, the one that makes him spill into her mouth every time.

"I haven't finished your punishment," he reminds her. She bites her lip and shudders slightly, her hard nipples grazing his chest. He cups one breast in his hand, gently at first but then rubbing her nipple insistently with his thumb. He pinches it lightly and she lets out a soft whimper of pleasure. "I won't have you overworking yourself, Margaret," he warns her. "If you're going to stay up until the wee small hours arguing with Geoffrey, then you have to suffer the consequences." She moves to lie down, but he stops her. "Over my knee this time, I think."

She arranges herself carefully over his erection and as his palm connects with her flesh, she grinds down against him. He scolds her in soft whispers - nothing too harsh this time, not after a minor infraction, but quietly _naughty girl, Margaret_ , and _do you know what I did when I was waiting for you to come to bed?"_.

He didn't, as it happens, but it doesn’t hurt to reminder her that there are times when he wants her and she can't slip upstairs to 'freshen her make up' and tumble into bed (or onto the sofa, or up against the wall) for a quickie, him thrusting into her hard and fast as she urges him on with filthy words hissed into his ear _fuck me, Denis, I need you, give it to me harder darling, you know all those men downstairs wish they were doing this right now_. All too often, there are those days when she's too busy, or the weeks she's away charming voters or diplomats or that dimwitted former actor in the White House who delights in calling her in the early hours of the morning when she's fighting to keep her voice steady as Denis slides his fingers into her. That's when he takes care of his own needs, sometimes with the magazines she pretends not to know about, but more often imagining _her_ and reliving one of their encounters. She will slip into bed in the early hours and find the sheets sticky. Sometimes she apologises wordlessly, coaxing him into hardness again with her mouth or her hands, and sometimes she pleasures herself when she thinks he's asleep, breath coming in harsh, embarrassed snorts as she fingers herself to climax.

When he's finished, he caresses the stinging, flushed skin and sings an obscene version of the red flag quietly under his breath. She gets the giggles - it's a crime, he thinks, that most people don't get to hear her laugh. She might not always get the joke (or realise that there was one in the first place), and she's been known to let the most overt innuendo pass her by completely, but when she laughs her face lights up. It’s how he knows that she’s fully relaxed, all the tension of her day (and night) gone.

“Have I been forgiven?” she asks, her lips curving up in a smile.

He kisses her deeply. “Nothing to forgive, sweetheart. Just try to come to bed earlier tomorrow, hm?”

Her mouth is eager against his, teeth tugging at his lower lip, hands pushing the dressing gown off his shoulders and nails raking down his chest.

“I could come to bed now…”

“Excellent idea, Prime Minister.”

He shucks his pyjama bottoms off, and her fingers wrap around his cock, thumb circling the head, but it isn’t her time to take charge.

“If you do that, this is going to be over before it’s started,” he warns. He’s already dangerously close to the edge.

He flips her onto her back, and she winces slightly. He wonders if he should have been less rough - it would be just like her to take the pain just to prove she could, and not because she was enjoying it. She’ll push herself to extremes given half the chance, and he promised himself a long time ago that he’d be the place she comes to when she’s tired of fighting, not another arena for her to prove herself in. He rolls them over gently, so she’s straddling his waist, damp curls rubbing up against his cock in a way that’s half irritating, half pleasurable. 

“Something you wanted, Margaret?”

She just smiles and moves until she’s brushing the tip of his cock with her wet cunt and arches an eyebrow, waiting for him to challenge her. He stays motionless as she eases down and his breath comes out in a hiss as she takes him inside. She repeats the motion slowly, teasingly, waiting for him to take control again. He just smiles, maddeningly, and doesn’t move except for the involuntary jerking of his hips. She looks at him expectantly, and then starts to rise and fall on him with a faint scowl. She can’t work out what game he’s playing, and that bothers her. He clenches his hands in the bedsheets in an effort not to grab her by the waist and grind her onto him. She’s riding him harder now, that look of fierce determination blazing in her eyes, angling herself to increase the friction on her clit. She won’t come from penetration alone, not at this angle, but if she wants more then she’s going to have to ask for it. 

“Ask for it, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You’re good at asking for what you want.”

Actually, she’s very good at _telling_ people - the E.C, Galtieri, her Cabinet - what she wants. Very rarely does she have to ask, and no one ever makes her beg. That’s his job.

The look she gives him would cause a lesser man to wilt - and more than a few to come there and then - but he just smiles mildly and snakes a hand up to caress her breasts. Above the sound of her breathy moans, Big Ben strikes a sonorous four o’clock and all is definitely well. 

“Denis...” She’s starting to break, her skin damp with sweat and her breath uneven. “ _Please._ ”

He pulls her down so that she’s lying on top of him, relishing her warmth and the faint traces of her perfume on her skin, kissing her tenderly as he teases her breasts. He kisses her neck, not hard enough to leave a mark but just enough to remind her that he _could_. He could keep her up for the rest of the night, leaving her to stagger into the Cabinet meeting this morning with nipple still raw from his fingers and teeth, reddish-purple bruises on her neck from his mouth and barely able to sit down without remembering in graphic detail what he'd done to her. 

He nips at her earlobe and whispers in her ear that she's been a very good girl and she can have her reward now. 

His thumb circles her clit and she's crying out loud enough that the whole of Downing Street can probably hear her, her body taut as a violin string as she trembles with the beginnings of orgasm. He's losing control fast, and when he comes, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, she follows moment later, gasping and spasming against him, around him, for what seems like forever. She slumps in his arms and he eases them both back down onto the bed, murmuring endearments as she recovers. 

She looks more peaceful than he's seen her in weeks as she lets him pull the covers over them and snuggles up against his side, her head resting on his chest and their legs tangled together. They've got an hour and a half before she'll be up and bossing everyone around, and he intends to make the most of it.


End file.
